Chinthes et ut Abscondaris
by scrumptiousinternetllama
Summary: Harry has the perfect hiding place after the war, but someone else has found it...
1. Pt I

**AN: Pride of Portree**

 **Beater 1: Player 4: An epigraph and an example of personification  
** **Optional Prompts: (word) tradition, (word) forgive**

 **I do not own the Harry Potter universe or the song Speeding Cars by Walking On Cars!**

 **I would like to say a big thank you to Cypresswand for showing me Speeding Cars by Walking On Cars. The lyrics from it are in the epigraph and it's been an inspiring listen!**

 **Also, a thank you to Sophie (Screaming Faeries) for the challenge to look up a random Wiki page (Chinthes) and incorporate what I've learned into my writing!**

Chinthes et ut Abscondaris

 ** _How I love that no one knows…_**

* * *

It's his little secret. As he weaves through the shelves that have been stacked precariously high, Harry smiles to himself. It's a little smoky in here, and the plush maroon carpets muffle his footsteps and those of other shoppers. In fact, the antiquated shop on the Sri Lankan street corner does such a good job of concealing whoever else is wandering through it that Harry finds it magical—he knows full well that this shop is run by wizards.

His senses are almost overwhelmed. The sweet musk of incense dances around him, making him slightly heady. There's a noticeable lack of air-conditioning, and beads of sweat form on his neck as the midday heat creeps into the room. His ears are assaulted by silence; yet, the building he's stood in has sounds of its own. If you asked him, he wouldn't be able to explain. His fingers have run over countless textures: mahogany, silk, glass… but it isn't _just_ mahogany, silk, and glass.

It's an entire forest, an ocean, and a crystal ball… or the staircase in Privet Drive, Ron's awful new curtains, and the lenses of his glasses.

It's moments like this that Harry shakes his head, and though he's trying to stop cursing, he can't help but let a few bad words escape his lips.

Why does his mind insist on ruining the magic of the moment?

It's then that he hears it. For the first time since he first started frequenting this little shop, he hears the bell jingle as someone opens the door.

He strains his ears for any other sound, but it's quiet again—but a voice!

He just heard it. He's sure of it.

What he's not sure about is if he wants to see the owner of the voice. His feet carry him in the direction he thinks it came from anyway.

The smoke thins (another first), and he sees a wisp of a person.

It thins further and there she is, stood before him in undeniable solidity: Daphne Greengrass.

She's stood so he can only see her side, but his jaw tightens at the sight of her. There's indescribable pain there too.

She was brought up surrounded by pureblood ideals. They shaped her view of the world, leaving the two of them on opposite sides of the war.

He doesn't want her here, in his safe space. It's where he comes to be alone.

 _But you were both so young. Things change…_

There's an uncomfortable clarity, and Harry misses the shroud of smoke that passed away moments ago.

He watches her pass over a small brass statuette. It's a Chinthe; he recognises it as one similar to the one in his pocket. Long ago, the Chinthe statuettes were used to measure the quantities of items. His hiding place evidently hasn't moved on from those times.

But Harry likes it. It gives him the sense of being in another world—an older one that exists outside of the Wizarding Wars. This is the only place where he's truly relieved of everyone's critical gaze… and that brings his train of thought back to the invader.

She's just slipped something into her pocket. Her haste to conceal whatever she has bought makes Harry immediately suspicious, but he can't investigate her. He doesn't want to, actually. This is the place he's relieved of his burdens—and that includes his work.

Then she turns around, and Harry realises too late that since he can see her, she can see him. He's far too accustomed to the anonymity the shop offers…

As soon as her gaze lands on him, her eyes narrow, and she looks accusatory—as if _he's_ the one intruding. He can't bring himself to glower, though; it's a subconscious decision.

 _I'm not polluting this place with negativity._

That's why he smiles. Daphne's surprised expression almost makes him laugh, but he's never before broken the silence of this place and he doesn't intend to do so now. Instead, he tilts his head to where he believes the exit is and leaves.

He's stood outside for no longer than two seconds before Daphne appears beside him. He waits until he hears the wooden door of the shop click shut before he speaks.

"Daphne," he says, stepping further away from the shop.

"That is my name, Harry," she replies, and he can feel the smirks on both of their faces.

He shakes his head, apologetic. Then shakes it again so that the dark hair in his eyes is no longer hindering his vision. "I'm sorry," he says with a small smile. "I'm just surprised to see you here."

"As am I," she says. Her response is elusive, and Harry can't help but keep talking.

"You come here often?" he asks, and he's genuinely curious.

She looks up, and Harry sees the mix of emotions in her eyes. "A lot since…" Her voice trails off and Harry knows that the word she doesn't want to say is 'war'.

"I understand."

* * *

Daphne seems to realise that he visits often; perhaps they visit the same amount… Harry can't be sure, though, but she's invited him to a café.

They're sat opposite each other, and he has his elbows resting on the sun-warmed table, marvelling at the view he has. Elephants. He's absolutely transfixed by their slow movements, some of them laying on the ground with their tails flicking lazily.

He's uncomfortably aware of Daphne's cool gaze, and he wonders why she frequents such a relaxed dining place; it's certainly a break from tradition. He'd expect to see her dining in a high class wizarding restaurant, but instead, they're sitting with small slices of bread in a Muggle café. Harry thinks the place has a certain charm to it… He can certainly forgive the dingy outward appearance.

In an obvious effort to break the silence, Harry asks, "Do you visit this café often?"

Daphne nods before speaking, the sun making her blonde hair glimmer. "I've been visiting since my third or fourth trip to Sri Lanka," she answers.

He arches an eyebrow. If she's visited as many times as he has, then she'd have spent hours and hours in this place. It's then that he notices just how deeply she's looking into his eyes, and he wonders if the sun is having the same effect on his green irises as it's having on Daphne's blonde hair.

"Why do you visit?" asks the blonde in an almost-whisper. She seems to want to retract the words the moment she says them.

Harry's eyes widen at the question and Daphne looks like her breath has been stolen from her. He doesn't really know how to answer properly—how to summarise just how much that small shop on the Sri Lankan street corner does for him, so he simply says, "To hide."

Once he says the words aloud, he realises they're quite true. He also realises that he doesn't mind telling Daphne; there's something in her eyes that tells him his answer has struck a chord within her. He knows from experience that it's a painful relatability.

He doesn't anticipate a verbal confession from her, so when she says, "I do, too," he's surprised. In fact, he's not quite sure he's heard her right.

She laughs at his expression. "Yes, I said I do, too."

He doesn't want to push, but he has to know something. "Why?"

Daphne sobers up as soon as the question leaves his lips, morphing into the picture of pureblood composure. Then he watches, fascinated, as the facade drops once more. "I don't know," she says.

He lets her think for a moment.

"I—After the war, I could see it in everyone's faces," she begins. Harry knows what she's talking about. The admiration, the pity, and the war itself. Daphne continues, oblivious to Harry's thoughts, "They looked at me and all I could see was the disgust, the wariness—even the war itself. It was imprinted on the premature lines on their faces."

 _Different experiences from different sides of the war._

He's broken from his thoughts by Daphne's, "What about you?"

"Oh," he says, caught off-guard, "the same."

Daphne snorts, and it's the first time he's heard her make a sound that isn't ladylike in its entirety. "I don't believe that for a second," she says. "No one would look at the Golden Boy with wariness and disgust."

He's not stupid; he can tell he's being mocked when it's right in front of his face. However, he knows that Daphne's words are coming from a place of hurt, and an impulsive feeling of righteous anger flares in his chest. Why should Daphne be condemned for the choices her parents made?

But all he says is, "They don't, but it feels the same sometimes. I see the war in everyone's faces, and it's hard to look at my own reflection knowing that I'm the reason for it."

Harry doesn't think either of them knows why they're opening up to each other so quickly. Perhaps it's this place, or maybe it's the fact that they can feel an odd sense of familiarity oozing off one another.

Either way, Harry can sense the bond they have, and he looks up at the cloudless Sri Lankan sky, thankful for the magical little shop that dropped its veils just in time for the two of them to meet.

* * *

 _ **Advertise my secrets...**_


	2. Pt II

Pt. II

The acrid taste of smoke coats Harry's tongue as he steps out of the telephone box that provides an entrance and exit to the Ministry.

He used to love Bonfire Night, but now, older and more experienced, he's stopped appreciating the gruesome tale of how Guy Fawkes met his end. The war isn't ready to release him from its painful grasp, and the scent of death still lingers around him, too familiar for him to appreciate the burning of effigies; the flames make him flinch.

He hasn't seen Daphne since returning from Sri Lanka, and the routine of everyday life has him wondering if she really was there to hide.

 _What did she buy? Why did she hide it?_

Surely he's been fooled is his conclusion, and he wonders whether he did the right thing by not reporting her. Perhaps he should now…

But right now, he's on his way to get a drink. He missed his lunch break and his thoughts are getting louder as the dark, smoke-filled streets pass him, one by one, until he reaches the bar he's seen plenty of times but never actually frequented. The Leaky Cauldron is where he usually drinks.

It's smoky in here too. He's about to find himself a seat when someone brushes past him, and he catches the flash of a bracelet charm before he turns right back around to follow them.

He's made it to an alley just next to the pub when Daphne turns around, laughter in her eyes. He can see a wariness there, too.

"What gave me away?" she asks, and Harry is thrown for a moment.

"The charm on your bracelet," he answers.

Daphne lifts up her wrist, undoubtedly to look at the Chinthe charm, and asks: "Why were you following me?"

He sputters indignantly for a moment but drops the act. There's no use in lying. "I wanted to ask you why you visited the shop," he says, and his words hang in the air before Daphne decides to grace him with an answer.

"I told you when we were there. It's the same reason you go there, remember?"

He bristles at her condescending tone, and he wonders when he got so careless that he would give his personal details to a potential criminal. "What I mean is, you bought something from there. Now, why did you have to go there, of all places?"

"Why was I there? You wouldn't expect me to buy from Muggles, would you?" she asks, and she's _smirking._

He can't help but want to wipe it off her face. "You could get into trouble if you don't watch what you're saying."

Despite the warning, she only laughs. "I'm the daughter of pureblood supremacists; anything I do can get me into trouble—and what I meant by that comment was, I was buying a magical artefact. Muggles would not be able to supply me with them. If they can, then I'm certainly behind the times. Tell me, Auror Potter, when we broke the Statute of Secrecy."

She's moved closer, and Harry can smell the breath of a threat. "There's no need to be so—"

"There is _every_ need, if you insist on treating me like a criminal," she hisses.

"I'm not!"

"You're interrogating me in a bloody alley!" Her words echo off the walls of the alley like they're sentient and want him to get the point she's making.

But what Harry's thinking is that it's the first time he's seen her lose her calm, and he can't help but smirk. He rather enjoys taking that poised image away from her; it lets him see what's truly there.

"That I am," he replies.

"Why are you smirking?" she growls, and Harry's eyes widen at the uncharacteristically animalistic tone; he knows he's pushing her closer to her breaking point.

He can't help but wonder if anyone else has seen this side to her.

"I'm smirking because I want to. Do you have an issue with my happiness?" he asks nonchalantly.

Perhaps this will be what pushes her over the edge, what will make her lose control and reveal the things she hides in the carefully concealed compartments of her mind.

She takes a deep breath, close enough for Harry to feel the air whistling past him. "Auror Potter, as this isn't a formal interview, I wish to excuse myself," she says, and as she's about to turn, he stops her.

 _That's_ what pushes her. Sparks fly from the end of her wand as she speaks through gritted teeth, commanding him to: "Let go."

He listens, because now that she's this angry, he wants to keep her speaking to him—but he's not stupid; his wand is out behind his back.

Unfortunately, she notices.

"So now you're going to attack me when I'm not paying attention?" she asks. She looks absolutely furious. "I didn't know that was the Gryffindor way." Her tone is sarcastic and Harry has to stop himself from rising to the bait.

Now, even though he's let go, she's still stood close, and Harry finds that it would be difficult to hide any movement or even thought.

"Why don't you just tell me, then?" challenges Harry, trying to keep the guilt out of his expression. He feels terrible for asking, knowing that plenty of people involved in the war just want to live normally now.

Stood in this close proximity to each other, Harry can see that behind her mask of anger, Daphne is stricken. As he focuses on her eyes, he sees them well up, and she lets the tears spill. Her gaze is still steady on him, ever stubborn.

Not wanting to be the first one to speak, but knowing he's going to have to be, Harry says: "I'm sorry."

Daphne shakes her head, and her blonde hair brushes his cheek. "Don't be," she says, sounding strangled.

Harry sighs and puts his hands on Daphne's shoulders, feeling her stiffen at the contact. "Listen, I'm sorry. I know it's difficult when you want to move on from the…" Here, Harry has to take a deep breath. "The _war._ "

"You don't know anything about difficulty."

That hits a nerve.

"I don't? I crave normality each and every day, Daphne. You might not realise it, but being the _Golden Boy_ doesn't automatically make my life brilliant. Why do you think I go to Sri Lanka?" asks Harry.

"Why do you think _I_ go?" exclaims Daphne. "I am so sick of your hypocrisy." But those last words lack feeling, and Daphne gives up on suppressing her feelings, allowing them to take over. Her body shakes with the force of her sobs, and Harry, still centimetres away from her, decides to take a risk.

He gathers Daphne up in his arms, allowing her to cry into his shoulder to give her some dignity should anyone walk past.

"I'm sorry," he mutters again, wondering how the two of them always manage to find each other at their most vulnerable.

When she manages to collect herself, she stands straight and looks him in the eyes, showing no shame of the tears still on her cheeks. "I'm sorry you had to trouble yourself," she says, her voice lacking emotion. Harry misses the raw honesty of it.

"Don't be sorry."

To his surprise, Daphne laughs. "Isn't it funny? Whenever I see you, I'm completely open, yet, somehow, you still find a reason to suspect me."

"I'm sorry."

"So you keep saying," says Daphne dryly.

"There's no need to—"

Daphne cuts him off with one of her melodic laughs. "This sounds strangely reminiscent of our conversation moments ago," she says, taking a long, searching look at Harry.

He feels slightly uncomfortable under the mercy of her scrutiny, but he stands straight, unwilling to show it.

"I'm sorry," she says, and she looks at Harry to gauge his reaction.

He can't help but laugh, relieved that the moment of tension has passed. Daphne remains serious, and only when he sobers up and remains silent for a few awkward moments does she laugh herself. It's a hearty sound, full of life, and as Harry joins in, they move closer to each other.

Pausing to catch her breath, Daphne leans her head against his with a smile and says: "I hope chance is on our side and we meet again."

Harry couldn't agree more.

The two of them leave the cover of the alley and go their separate ways—in opposite directions. As he walks away, Harry smiles to himself. They can't seem to hide from each other, but he finds that he doesn't really mind.

* * *

 **Word count: 2,999 (without AN)**


End file.
